


just a day job

by hiltaire



Series: just a day job verse [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiltaire/pseuds/hiltaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their world isn't so different from our own.</p><p>People know superheroes exist in the same way that they know the moon landing was real. No one knows why they exist, just that sometimes if they look up at the right time, they’ll see a bird that’s somehow too big, or someone will suddenly catch them right before they’re about to be hit by a flaming boomerang. But people are being found dead in the streets, having had various investigative medical works done on them, and no one knows why, let alone how they died. All they have in common is their superpowers.</p><p>Les Amis de l'ABC is, as we all know, a student-run activism group. It just so happens that a number of them have superpowers. And as a wise man once said, with great power comes great responsibility.</p><p>[INDEFINITE HIATUS]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have honestly never put anything on AO3 before, so I really hope this works. (This is also all planned out, start to finish, so I hope to actually have regular updates.)

There was a chill in the air as Montparnasse snapped his fingers to light his cigarette; Gueulemer’s already narrow eyes pulling into a squint as the fire illuminated the darkness. They couldn’t afford to be caught. Granted, it wasn’t exactly the _most_ guarded prison in the country, but breaking anyone out of prison is, generally speaking, frowned upon in most societies.

“Put that out,” a muffled voice hissed from Montparnasse’s left, and Claquesous appeared a moment later. “Or do you want to get us all flung behind bars?”

Montparnasse shrugged, leaning back and breathing a long breath of smoke into Claquesous’ masked face before grudgingly obliging. Then his eye caught movement, just outside the shadows.

“Shit, guard,” he mumbled under his breath, pressing back against the wall, as Gueulemer shrank down and Claquesous vanished.

“Relax, it’s me,” the guard said, raising an eyebrow and smirking at them.

“Fuck, Babet,” scoffed Montparnasse as he pushed off the wall. “What’re you trying to do, give us a bloody heart attack?”

“Not my fault you weren’t on your guard,” Babet raised his shoulders, the guard’s head tilting from side to side, as if to crack his neck. Claquesous reappeared, Gueulemer returning to his previous size. “Look, Brujon should be getting done with the security officer any minute now, if you know what I mean, and when he gives the signal we need to be mobile. And—“

“We know,” Montparnasse cut him off. “We’ve been over the plans for this about a million times, and just as long as ‘Ponine fixes the storm for us, we’re back on track.”

All the lights in the complex went out.

“That’s the signal,” muttered Claquesous, disappearing as the others headed into action.

Montparnasse was the last to get moving, idly wondering to himself if this meant that today had been the last of his days of sleeping in. They had a lot of work to do, after all, and the boss was back in town…


	2. Chapter One - Eight Months Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight months after the events of the prologue, this chapter humbly takes its place.
> 
> Introducing Les Amis de l'ABC, with your friendly cynical host.
> 
> Two thirds of the trio have a heart to heart.
> 
> Montparnasse is totally whipped.

_Maybe I should tell him I fucked his dad last night…_

_Do you think if I walk past that bum and look in the other direction he won’t judge me?_

_Ugh, someone should really do something about the homeless problem around here; I literally JUST got these shoes…_

Grantaire put his head down as he pulled the collar of his coat up around his chin. People really disgusted him someti-- Okay, that was a lie. People really disgusted him _all_ the time. But then, considering he was lucky enough to hear all their dirty little secrets, whether they liked it or not, could anyone really judge him for his misanthropy?

_Ugh, I really hope that skank takes a long walk off a short pier. Slut…_

All day every day, he tried to tune it out but it was all he could do, hear them complain about the world, lie through their teeth, feign _contentment_ , and it had made him bitter. No one stopped. No one helped. And if a single person stepped forwards to do something, it was greeted with what, sarcasm? People made him sick.

_I need to get out, I need to feed them, how can I get out when I’m so useful to him…_

He stepped past a girl with her hair pulled back into a scraggly ponytail on his way into the Café Musain, frowning to himself as he heard her worries. Great. Another example of someone the world had failed. One would think with heroes being a reality and all, at least one of them would step in.

“…And to anyone who sees fit to disagree with us and our ideals, they will see the power of the people as we make our voices as one. We shall unite…”

Grantaire took the only free chair, eyes fixed on the golden-haired revolutionary that spoke words so fierce they could move mountains. He didn’t even have any powers, yet he had amassed an audience, no…he had attracted his friends, that were so enthralled, so enraptured, so _alight_ with the spirit Enjolras’ very presence seemed to command, that all thought seemed to fuse in solidarity.

Too bad his beliefs were bullshit.

_No, I can’t ask that question, I have to word it so he doesn’t…_

To Enjolras’ left was Courfeyrac. While Enjolras had been the primary attractor for the group that thought to call themselves Les Amis de l’ABC, Courfeyrac was, in all essence, the glue that kept this ragtag group of youths together. He had hair so fluffy it would make a poodle jealous and a sense of dress so hip and cool it was no wonder he seemed to attract people left right and centre. For all his sunshine and clumsiness, he held the lowest record of bad break-ups in the history of the group, possibly something to do with his uncanny ability to compel any and all of his conversation partners into telling the truth, no matter their lying capabilities, no matter the situation. It was a handy capability, but Courfeyrac kept it to himself.

_Shit, that outcome isn’t a good one, gotta back this up, back it up…_

Grantaire suppressed a smirk as he noticed Combeferre’s power at work. Literally, the tallest of the group, the only one of them to wear glasses, the person who always saved Grantaire a seat in Philosophy lectures, Combeferre, could see the future. Obviously, it changed in accordance to events, and he often got little flashes which made him take his glasses off and his hand come up to the bridge of his nose, but Grantaire had to admit that it was a useful power. At least, it had saved their hides more than once.

_Aw yis, motherfucking breadcrumbs…_

Bahorel nudged at Feuilly, Feuilly obediently shifting a little to the right, though he frowned a moment later. Feuilly’s only power was his understanding of technology, and Grantaire wasn’t even sure if that _counted_. Bahorel, on the other hand? The slim, messy-haired individual had a certain…gift of persuasion, to put it in its most simple terms.

Musichetta swept past their table and Les Amis obediently raised their hands and papers. She pressed a light kiss to Bossuet and Joly’s heads, both of them smiling lightly and returning it to her cheeks at the same time, though as Bossuet leant back to do so, he knocked his (empty) glass over, Musichetta gripping it before it had opportunity to hit the floor.

 _Oh, my boys_ …

He liked hearing Musichetta’s thoughts. She made having powers seem like almost a _good_ thing. But then, hers actually came in useful, what with Bossuet’s iridescent clumsiness and Joly’s nerves. He’d always wondered what it’d be like to be able to fly--

_I could be fifty feet above the Eiffel tower right now…_

Grantaire’s lip quirked up as Jehan’s thoughts matched his own, almost exactly, even as the intrepid and surprisingly muscular Ami shifted in his chair, a wistful expression upon his face. He looked uncomfortable, but then…the garish shirt and sweater combination he wore only just concealed the wings he groomed each night. Jehan’s was a physical power, and Grantaire refused to delve too far into his mind, a protection of his own sanity. It couldn’t be easy, hiding something like that for so long…

The entire group looked up as the door opened once more, the scraggly-haired girl who had acted as a doorstop long-gone. Marius Pontmercy stumbled in, his cheeks flushed and his freckles all at attention, black hair flopping to the side. The gangly fool had met the group with some conflict at first, but now was seen as something of a friend. It was a true testament to mankind, Grantaire thought, that one’s views could change and be so easily manipulated as to dictate the company one kept. Marius was a prime example of this, though to his credit, he had found work amongst the people, doing what he did best; making the flowers grow to their full potential.

 _God, she’s beautiful_ …

Grantaire raised an eyebrow, casting an eye around the room. Having just received a full mental description of golden hair and blushing cheeks and beauty, all he could assume was that Marius had fallen into the well-worn trap that was Enjolras-being-mistaken-as-a-girl.

“She swept me off my feet,” Marius flopped dramatically down onto Courfeyrac, his grin threatening to split his face in half. Okay, perhaps there _was_ a girl…Oh? She really _had_ swept him off his feet? Well, wasn’t that interesting… “And her name’s Cosette and her favourite flowers are Gladioli and she’s got gorgeous long blo—“

“Marius, shut up,” Enjolras stared at him. “There’s a time and a place for your lonely soul, so please control your feelings until the setting is appropriate. _As I was saying_ —“

They never got to hear what Enjolras was saying; Feuilly’s phone beeped.

_Oh, shit…_

Well, that sounded vaguely ominous… Sure enough:

“According to the RSS feed, they found another body.”

Grantaire could practically feel the air around the table grow static, those with powers’ shoulders pulling together in almost defensive gestures. There was something weird about the bodies; the police were being almost _too_ quiet about it.

“I wonder what the link is,” Bahorel tapped his chin, even as his Adam’s apple bobbed. Bossuet tilted his head in question, and Bahorel, catching his eye, elaborated. “Y’know, ‘cause I’d heard they were like…” He dropped the volume of his voice, though it carried across the table. “Serial killer styled…”

“I heard there was something… _strange_ about them,” Jehan murmured, eyes downcast as he shifted again, even more uncomfortably, wishing he could hide behind his wings.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Enjolras interrupted this line of thought before it could go any further. “We need to discuss next week’s rally, people. Now, I was thinking…”

Enjolras didn’t believe in superheroes, Grantaire sighed as he went back to staring, occasionally interjecting opposing points for their leader to argue against. It was a shame, he thought, that he didn’t have any powers. But then, Apollo with the power to smite? That would be a beautiful and terrible thing indeed.

***

“So what do you think about Marius’ special _encounter_?” Courfeyrac questioned, stretching out on Combeferre’s couch with his head in the guide’s lap.

“They’ll live a long and relatively healthy life together, buy a house in the suburbs and her father will terrify the shit out of hi—“ Combeferre snapped his mouth shut, frowning down at Courfeyrac and bookmarking his book. Why did he even read when he already knew the ending? Oh well. “You stop that.”

“Stop what?” Courfeyrac blinked innocently up at him, the effect somewhat ruined by the batting of his eyes that only made Combeferre want to chuckle.

“That questioning thing you do where it’s impossible to lie to you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right…” Combeferre rolled his eyes, combing his long fingers through Courfeyrac’s impossible hair and untangling the tight curls as much as he could without tugging.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, Combeferre’s fingertips massaging small circles into Courfeyrac’s scalp. He liked moments like this, when no one was endangering their futures, when he was able to just _relax_ instead of downing headache tablet after headache tablet to stop the influx of images from bringing him to his knees. It had been bad enough when he’d had to hide it from his parents, when he’d failed and they’d sought medical help for him, help he tried _really hard_ not to think about.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Courfeyrac, dark brown eyes boring holes into Combeferre’s own, though he hadn’t noticed, lost in a world of his own.

“My power…” It slipped out before Combeferre could stop it and Courfeyrac sat up like a poker had just smacked him in the shoulder, his eyes bright as he stared, startled at first, at his friend, before his expression melted into one of pure glee.

_‘I have a power too! People always tell me the truth!’_

The flash was over almost as soon as it had begun.

“I ha—“

“You’re a walking truth serum? Why am I not surprised?” Combeferre interrupted him before he could actually say what his power was, causing Courfeyrac to squint at him.

“How did…?”

“I uh…” Combeferre looked down, adjusting his glasses on his face as his lip twisted to the side. “I can kinda, sorta…I see the future.”

Courfeyrac nodded a few times before returning to his previous position, head on Combeferre’s lap.

They fell back into silence.

That had been…an easier reveal than he’d thought it would be. It was weird; no one else knew about his power as far as he knew, and his parents thought he was crazy…

“How’d you get something from the A-list, though?” Courfeyrac grumbled, pouting and huffing.

“If only I knew, Courf…” Combeferre chuckled, going back to his ministrations on Courfeyrac’s hair and letting his own head fall back against the top of the couch. “If only I knew…”

***

“We can’t keep meeting like this.”

“Oh, you and your dramatics, ‘Parnasse,” the girl rolled her eyes, moving to sidestep the cherry-cheeked man behind the bar. He grabbed her wrist, his hand hot against her bare skin.

Almost immediately, the previously clear night’s sky was shrouded in cloud. “Let go of me.”

“Easy, Eponine, you of all people know I ain’t gonna do you no harm.”

Nonetheless, Montparnasse let go of her and stood back, raising his hands in almost mocking surrender. Eponine smirked, folding her arms and flicking her ponytail behind her back again. “That’s more like it. You always were a good boy for taking command.”

Montparnasse shrugged nonchalantly. “What can I say? Suppose I just can’t help myself, eh? Always come crawling back for more…”

Humming in approval, Eponine slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer so she could suck on the fading hickey high up on the column of his neck. “And don’t you forget it.” She rested her sharp chin against his shoulder, falling quiet as his chest jerked with silent giggles. “You gonna tell my dad?”

The laughter stopped.

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

Eponine stepped away from Montparnasse, cupping his rosy cheek in her hand, thumbing at those pale pink lips as she tilted her head to the side, surveying him. And then she patted his face and walked away.

The moon came out from behind the clouds.

Montparnasse sighed, heading in the opposite direction with his head ducked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the first instalment. Eek.
> 
> *pokes at my plan for the rest of it*
> 
> I do hope this universe goes well...
> 
> It would be a shame if something...
> 
> Happened to it OuO


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shifty figures do shifty things.
> 
> theresbeenamurder.gif + mentions of torture ???
> 
> Cosette is totally Marius' knight in shining armour. Jehan wears a jumper.
> 
> Gavroche makes a decision, much to Courfeyrac and Azelma's chagrin.
> 
> Enjolras is confused.
> 
> Javert's just trying to do his job.

“—To my head. _Hey_!”

The oversized man with the body over his shoulder blinked bemusedly at his new surroundings, his masked companion clicking their tongue and rolling their eyes as they removed his hand from Gueulemer’s arm, immediately wiping it on their trousers.

“Will you _stop doing that_?” Gueulemer hissed, huffing and adjusting his grip on the limp body.

“And miss the look on your face?” countered Claquesous. “Never. Drop it and let’s go before you bumble about everywhere and knock over all the bins, yeah? This ain’t a cop movie.”

One could even say there was a certain level of wry amusement to be had in the simple fact that the masked criminal seemed to be so reluctant to enact the clichés of popular culture. Nonetheless, Gueulemer, not picking up on the humour of the situation, narrowed his beady eyes, obeying and setting the body down. Claquesous stepped forwards, pressing Gueulemer to the side so they could alter the body’s position, now slumped artfully against the wall so as to emulate a drunken stupor.

“There,” Claquesous mumbled, straightening up and dusting off their hands, before their nose wrinkled and they gingerly held Gueulemer’s wrist between two fingers.

“You’d think I—“ Gueulemer didn’t get to finish his sentence, the two disappearing from the scene without so much as a puff of smoke.

***

“’Free and responsible choice is rather free will to make significant choices between good and evil, which make a big difference to the agent, to others, and to the world.’”

Grantaire scoffed, and he’d have rolled his eyes at Combeferre had they not been walking side by side. “You can’t use an argument that explains why God _allows_ evil in an argument that is designed to state that humanity is not necessarily evil, but if you insist upon using it anyway, I’ll pander to your argument. ‘It will not do to claim that evil exists as a necessary contrast to good so that we might know what good is. A very small amount of evil, such as a toothache, would allow that. It is not necessary to destroy innocent human beings’. Why, then, do we do it?”

“Becau--…Well--…Touché, capital R,” Combeferre tipped his imaginary hat before straightening his glasses.

Grantaire’s lip twisted up. He hated it when people agreed so easily, but he knew Combeferre had enough on his mind with the rally four days away.

Combeferre stopped a split second before Grantaire did, much like the effects of live television.

_Another one?_

Another body, going by the vision Combeferre had just had, that he’d just got a sneak preview of. Fantastic. Great. There was a fucking dead body just around the corner, proving that the murders were a thing. That they were a real thing that people did, and for what, to harness their superpowers? The very concept was ridiculous. Why would anyone be so stupid as to slaughter people who had the power to fight back?

Combeferre cast a glance at Grantaire as they happened upon the corpse in question, tucked away behind a bakery. Poor sods, this couldn’t be good for their business.

_What if he asks how I knew?_

Yes, because that was totally the thing on Grantaire’s mind; _how they’d found the dead body they found_ , as opposed to _the dead body itself_. Combeferre was worried about the entirely wrong thing, thought Grantaire, as he indicated that they should check to see if the guy was breathing, mouth too dry to speak.

Combeferre crouched down beside him, pressing his fingers to the guy’s neck—

_‘”I DON’T KNOW, I DON’T KNOW, I JUST DO IT SOMETIMES, I— **AURGH**!!”_

_“Come on, I’m being perfectly nice here, love, now just tell us how you do it, yeah?”_

_“Stop, please, just stop”_

_There were a few sobs, gutwrenching sobs, a few utterances of pleading whispers that hurt more than the tube stuck into his stomach._

_“Boss, maybe we’d better—“_

_“Shut it, you.”_

_“No, really, I dunno how much more of this he can take…”’_

It was over and Combeferre was gasping, pulling away from the body, expression filled with naught but horror. Grantaire had sunk to the ground as well, eyes fixed on his friend as he scraped his hands on the ground trying to scramble away.

Grantaire put his hands over his ears, unwilling to hear Combeferre’s panicked thoughts right now.

***

“So, how long’ve you been working in here?”

“Oh, I—er… About two years now,” Marius nodded, blushing and fiddling with his hands on the countertop, the flowers around them quivering with nerves.

Cosette smiled brightly at him, “You seem like you’re very good at your job.” She put her hand over his and he blushed, but the daffodil in the vase by their hands seemed to grow brighter and Cosette sprung lightly up onto the counter. “And you have a very cute blush.”

Were he a poet, he could write sonnets about the curl to her hair, verse upon verse about her lips, and metaphors wrapped in metaphors that wouldn’t even capture the steadfast shine to her very soul. Alas;

“You have a very cute you,“ Marius said, before he could come up with anything more eloquent.

Cosette laughed, and _Christ_ , even her laugh was beautiful, with a little snort to it that she covered up with her other hand before Marius took it in his own, gladioli blossoming around them.

“You think I’m cute?” she murmured, leaning closer as his blush deepened. “No one’s ever called me cute before…”

“They haven’t?” he queried, shifting and smiling, his eyes filled to the brim with awe at her Cosette-ness.

“Mmm,” she hummed in return, freeing her hand from his grip and placing it almost tentatively on his cheek. “They tend to retract that opinion when I sweep them off their feet.”

Marius’ smile widened, recalling the event. “What, so I’m not allowed to call my knight in shining armour cute?”

“You can call me cute whenever you want, monsieur,” Cosette smiled, leaning in to kiss him.

“Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww…!” the exclamation came from the door to the back room as Jehan entered, grin threatening to split his face in two.

“Hello, Jehan,” Cosette chuckled, leaning her head on Marius’.

“I almost don’t want to break you up…” Jehan practically whined, the sound not out of place with his knitted puppy jumper.

“Then don’t,” Marius nudged against Cosette’s hand.

“Yeah, no, Combeferre and Grantaire found a body.”

Oh.

***

Courfeyrac and Enjolras sandwiched Combeferre as the authorities arrived, Grantaire standing awkwardly between Joly and Bahorel. Not a single face there didn’t sport a sombre expression as the proper authorities began to trickle into and around the area.

No one else noticed them arrive, the tousled twelve-year-old dragging his older sister by the hand through the alleyway. Perhaps it was just Courfeyrac’s ability to see the truth that allowed him to put his hand out and grab the kid by the scruff of his jacket.

“Not so fast, Gavroche,” Courfeyrac squinted at him.

Enjolras blinked at the sudden appearance of the child but put it down to everyone being preoccupied with the murder he was now consoling his guide over. Unused to physical contact as he was, it felt almost out of place to have his arms around the taller man, but as it were, the situation demanded it.

“Just let us past, Courf,” squirmed Gavroche, his orange-haired companion shifting uncomfortably but not saying anything.

“What do you know?”

“I dunno anything real, alright?”

Courfeyrac nodded, thankful for his gift and letting the kid go, even as Gavroche’s sister gaped at the honesty. “Fair enough,” he said, folding his arms. On one hand he was glad; it meant the street urchin he’d grown rather fond of wasn’t involved in this. On the other, it meant they didn’t have anywhere to start.

Grantaire frowned as he answered the police officer’s questions, but anyone would put it down to the curt manner of Officer Javert.

“Tell ya what, I can find out for ya, alright?”

“’Vroche, _no_.” The younger Thénardier girl's eyes widened as she now put her hand on her brother's shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Zel, they won’t even know I’m there.”

The police began to usher them all away from the scene of the crime and before Courfeyrac could protest, Gavroche and ‘Zel’ had slipped away.

Combeferre frowned, gaze drawn to the space where Gavroche had been. Grantaire frowned, gaze drawn to Combeferre. Enjolras frowned, gaze drawn to the body.

Javert sighed, stepping back to allow the crime scene photographers access to the body. Conspiracy theories his ass, this was a matter for the law to handle, _not_ a group of _schoolboys_ , barely equipped to handle themselves. Murder was a human concept. Justice would prevail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN
> 
> (also I'm sorry if bits of this were somewhat iffy, I'm jhljdfkghfldfjkhgjkhsdglksh words)


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sleepover & some revelations.
> 
> Azelma is one of three people in this fic that dye their hair.

“No, Courfeyrac, don’t touch that!” Musichetta slapped the centre’s hand away from the cookie dough bowl.

“But _whyyyyyyyy_ ,” whined Courfeyrac, giving her his best puppy eyes, the ones that matched his poodle hair perfectly.

“Because it’s _raw_ ,” she rolled her eyes affectionately, removing the bowl from his presence but handing him the spoon.

“Yes!” he grinned, doing a little victory dance.

Considering they’d found a dead body the day before, Musichetta had taken it upon herself to organise a sleepover, gathering Les Amis de l’ABC & Co. to join her at her flat for sleepover shenanigans and general hijinks. Alas, their intrepid leader had elected not to join them in their endeavour, his reasoning being that the rally was now only three days away and he had to revise his speeches and polish his buttons or something like that. She hadn’t really been listening.

At this current moment in time she wasn’t entirely sure what was going on. From what she could gather, an impromptu play-wrestling match had sprung up in her living room, involving the usual culprits; Bahorel, Feuilly and Grantaire, as Jehan offered helpful tips to each of them in turn from his perch behind Combeferre’s shoulder as he read. Joly and Bossuet were, of course, being useful little boyfriends in the kitchen and doing exactly as she said, stirring that, mixing that, putting popcorn in for that long.

“Hi guys!” Marius grinned as he peeked his head around the front door to the flat.

His only response was muffled yells of, “Get your fucking elbow out of my ass, Bahorel!” and, “Whoops, sorry, R, that was me.”

“Marius!” Musichetta appeared, pressing paper plates of cookies and brownies into his hands. “Come in, come in! Is this Cosette?”

“It’s so nice to meet you!” Cosette dropped all of their bags by the door, atop the pile that had already formed, and was enveloped in a floury hug by Musichetta.

“You have _no idea_ how glad I am there’s another girl around,” the curly haired brunette gushed, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “And oh my god he wasn’t kidding your hair is _gorgeous_!”

“Oh my god, _thank you_!” Cosette smiled once she was released from the hug, twirling her hair around her finger. “I need to dye it again, though, my roots are starting to show.”

“Ugh, I know right? I’m a natural redhead and it’s a _nightmare_ trying to keep on top of it. What’s your natural?”

“Actually the same colour you dyed your hair to.”

“No kidding! Why’d you dye it? I love being this colour!”

Marius blinked bemusedly as his girlfriend and his friend’s girlfriend seemed to click over…hair? Maybe he could…just…slide…away…

**_-CLICK-_ **

In his efforts to remove himself from the situation, he’d managed to slink into the living room, and, in doing so, hit the lights with his shoulder. Oops?

A resounding squeak of alarm echoed from everyone in the room, each one a reply to the last.

“What’s going on?” Joly’s voice came from the hallway.

“Yeah, is everything okay?”

The room stared, dumbfounded, at Bossuet as he appeared in the door.

“Bossuet…” breathed Bahorel, his head locked down by Grantaire’s arm. “You’re fucking glowing, man…”

Marius put the cookies and brownies down on the ground, found the lights and flipped the switch, the room’s occupants blinking at the change before Musichetta swept in, scooping the plates of food from the floor and setting them firmly down on the coffee table, arms folded across her chest, practically daring the group to say another word about Bossuet’s just-exposed superpower.

“Congratulations, Captain Obvious,” Joly joked, lobbing a piece of popcorn at Bahorel’s head and nudging Bossuet into the room, Cosette trailing after them curiously.

Shenanigans resumed.

“So you must be Cosette,” Combeferre straightened up, extending his hand towards her and knocking Jehan from his perch with an undignified screech as he toppled backwards off the couch. “Sorry, Prouvaire.”

“Don’t mention it,” came the muffled response.

Cosette chuckled lightly, nudging Marius forwards and shaking Combeferre’s hand. “Yes, that’s me. And you must be Combeferre.”

“What gave me away?” he raised an amused eyebrow as he closed his book with his free hand, setting it safely down on the arm of the couch.

“Marius described you all,” she smiled, pulling her boyfriend in front of her and setting her chin on his shoulder, her heels making her have to stoop to do so. “You seem like quite the interesting collection of friends.”

“We try,” Courfeyrac interrupted, shoving the penultimate cookie into Combeferre’s mouth and draping his arms around him.

“Gimme the last cookie,” pouted Bahorel, tugging on Courfeyrac’s hand, Courfeyrac obliging without thought.

Combeferre and Marius stared; they’d never known Courfeyrac to share food on command before. Grantaire smiled to himself in the corner, nursing a vodka and coke.

“What just happened?” Courfeyrac squinted at Bahorel, trying to discern the facts.

“I made you give me the last cookie,” Bahorel squinted back at him, chewing on the cookie.

Oh, squinting and frowning galore.

“Don’t eat with your mouth full, mon ami,” Grantaire got to his feet, leaning on Bahorel’s back with his chin on his shoulder. “Courfeyrac made you tell him the truth after you made him give you the last cookie, am I right? It’s impossible to deny you what you ask for just as it’s impossible to lie to Courfeyrac. Try not to dwell on it.”

_Does he **know**?_

The thought came simultaneously from Courfeyrac and Combeferre and Grantaire rolled his eyes, downing the rest of his drink. Of course, they’d told each other of their respective powers.

“Yes, I know,” he replied, the guide and centre’s eyebrows shooting up comically. “I’m a fuckin’ mindreader, what were you expecting?”

“I don’t think he’s lying…” Marius stared, dumbfounded.

“Wait, hold up!” exclaimed Joly from his position between Musichetta’s legs and Bossuet’s back. “Does _everybody_ here have freaking _superpowers_ or something?”

Aside from the Taylor Swift playing softly in the background, Les Amis & Co. fell silent for a few seconds, before a chorus of, “I do…” and, “Me too…” and, “I can _fly_!” greeted Joly’s ears.

“Great…” he pouted, snuggling down.

***

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Pfft, no,” Gavroche rolled his eyes at his sister. “But I don’t got much of a choice now, do I?”

“Are you shitting me?” Eponine arched an eyebrow but didn’t otherwise move from her position, fingers working the orange hair dye into Azelma’s hair. “Of course you’ve a bleeding choice.”

“Please don’t go, Gav; if they find you, they’ll kill you, just like what they’ve been doing to the others!” Azelma worried at her lip.

“You know me, guys,” Gavroche clicked his tongue. “They won’t even know I’m there. Look, if I do this, I might even be able to figure out what’s going on, I might get to help make it stop. If this stops folk from getting killed, I’m gonna do it and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

There was a pregnant pause. They knew he was right.

“…Alright,” Eponine frowned, but wagged her finger at him. “You be careful, though, yeah?”

Azelma huffed, waving her hand to make the door to the room unlock.

“Don’t worry, I will,” winked Gavroche. “I’ve got some bite, me.”

And he was gone before they could even say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what they say about calms and storms~~


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleepover shenanigans continue.
> 
> Jehan hits Bahorel in the face.
> 
> Musichetta has a nice butt.
> 
> Combeferre knows from experience what will help with the things inside one's head.

He wished he could describe to them the sensation of being a hundred feet above the earth, soaring and swooping with his wings spread free. He wished he could detail page after page of how beautiful the world felt from so high in the sky, how free he felt, how…how _ecstatic_. But at the same time, he wished he could relate to them how despair had gripped his soul the second he’d touched down, how each time he hid his wings beneath his shirt it felt as if he were hiding a part of himself away from the world, ashamed of his wings, ashamed of himself. He supposed, however, that there was a certain amount of symbolism to be found in the simple fact that he bound his wings to survive.

“I don’t believe you,” Bahorel leant over the kitchen counter.

Jehan smiled down at him, twisting his hands in his sleeves. “You think I’d lie about having wings?”

“Give him a break, Bahorel,” Musichetta sang, floating up to retrieve a glass from the top shelf before hovering out again.

“Can I see them?” requested Bahorel, eyes enthusiastic.

Jehan squinted at him. “Are you using your creepy persuasion thingy?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes!”

“…I promise I’m not using my creepy persuasion thingy. Please show me… _Please_ …?”

Frowning to himself after a second, Jehan nodded, molars working away at the flesh on the inside of his cheek. Okay, he could do this. It was just Bahorel…right? He stepped into the centre of the room, facing one of the corners so as to avoid knocking too much over and pulling his orange jumper over his head before he unbuttoned his shirt, fingers shaking as he swallowed. If he did this, he wouldn’t have to hide the itching when he was sitting next to his friends, he could even be free when it was just his friends around. This was a good thing.

After he undid the bandages and ties he employed every day with swift, used-to-this movements, he took a deep breath that matched the shuddering gasp behind him, and unfurled his wings, just a bit, enough for them to shimmer in the light, mint green accents fading to gold, white fading to blue, and back again. Still, he couldn’t help but fold his forearms across his stomach, waiting for a reaction.

“Wow…” Bahorel gaped at the wings. “They’re beautiful…”

Jehan span around, a grin of relief illuminating his face, smile faltering as his friend was nowhere in sight.

“Bahorel…?”

A quiet and pitiful groaning noise came from the floor and Jehan flapped expertly up onto the counter to look over the other side of it. Oh. Oops…?

***

“Do you have to be floating so high up?” worried Joly, gnawing a hole in his lip as he stared at his girlfriend.

Musichetta did a somersault in response, but obligingly hovered a little closer to the ground, Bossuet grinning as they now had a far better view of her yoga-toned butt.

“So, yeah, papa came and got me and I’ve been living with him ever since,” Cosette shrugged, playing with Marius’ fingers and resting her cheek on his head as he leant back in towards her chest.

Grantaire frowned, lips tightening as he reached for the vodka bottle. She hadn’t even told them half of her story, but he’d heard it all in her head and people really fucking sucked. Combeferre’s hand appeared, fingers encircling his wrist and pulling it away.

“Don’t,” he entreated, tipping Grantaire’s head back and working small circles into his temple with his free hand, pressing his mouth briefly against the raspberry-scented, all-too-wild curls.

“Marius isn’t telling anyone his power,” mumbled Grantaire, barely moving his mouth as he spoke, but the corner of his lip quirked up.

“What is it?” returned Combeferre, not shifting his gaze from Grantaire’s shut eyes.

“Not telling. He thinks it’s too embarrassing.”

“He does realise Bossuet glows, right…?”

Grantaire shrugged, settling back against Combeferre and turning his head to the side, against his thigh.

They fell into silence as the people around them bustled with excitement on the topic of superpowers. In fairness, it was an exciting topic. It was just that…well…Combeferre, being able to see the future and Grantaire being able to read minds? It sort of rendered the conversational aspect of all of this somewhat redundant.

Grantaire was the first to speak, “I know you’ve seen that Enjolras won’t change things on a permanent basis through his efforts or the group’s alone.”

Combeferre paused, the fingers entangled in Grantaire’s hair momentarily freezing, but not otherwise responding.

“Why haven’t you said anything to him?”

Opening his mouth to answer, Combeferre thought through a lot of responses, aware that Grantaire could hear each and every one of them.

“That would kill him,” he settled on, and took Grantaire’s silence as an agreement.

A shadow fell across them and the pair looked up, blinking at the change in light before laughing, the sombre mood lifting. Jehan and Musichetta were laughing lightly, Jehan’s wings carefully propelling him around the room as Musichetta floated gracefully through power of will alone. The looks on their faces alone could make a crotchety old man grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, clearly, but it's filler, so it's allowed to be~~ <3


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Patron-Minette, stealing people again~ When will they learn?
> 
> Interlude with Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta; nothing wrong with some fluffy filler.
> 
> Surprise surprise, the rally happens, stuff inevitably does not go as planned and, as seems to be becoming somewhat of a catchphrase for this fic, the phrase "Shut up, Freckles" is uttered.
> 
> Warning: Character death

“Hey, what’re you—“

The teenager was cut off by a gargantuan hand on his mouth as a masked individual scoffed, advancing.

“Powers of _stretchiness_? Talk about Third Class,” muttered Claquesous, quirking an unseen eyebrow at Gueulemer. “We’re really scraping at the bottom of the barrel, eh, Hercules?”

Gueulemer opened his mouth to reply to them, the teenager straining in his grip.

“Oh, never mind, don’t strain yourself,” Claquesous cut him off, pressing their mask back in place as they waved a dismissive hand. “Let’s just get out of here.”

***

Lying back between her boys, Musichetta smiled a little, contented smile, and let Joly clean them up with care and kisses and love as she encircled Bossuet’s torso with her arms, his skin glowing lightly in the darkness of the room.

“Room for one more?” Joly smiled, squirrelling between them anyway, pulling the covers up with him and taking his lovers’ hands in his own.

“Always,” hummed Musichetta, pressing a kiss to his ear.

Bossuet grinned, glowing happily as fingers danced across his illuminated skin. He had to admit he was glad; no more fleeing the room the second the lights were off, no more hiding during a power cut, no more secrets. Musichetta could relate; no more did she have to make excuses for how she’d managed to catch that glass, let alone how she’d managed to reach the top shelf by herself all these years. These two were satisfied with their current situation.

Yet still, Joly frowned to himself. The rally was the next day.

***

Combeferre had been on-edge all day, worrying at his lip and taking his glasses off to run his hand over his face, quite possibly overdosing on headache tablets what with the way his mind was overcome with an influx of images from things yet to come, outcomes that might not even happen. It was like this every time, every rally, every protest, every single time something could go wrong, he heard about it, and today was no different. No…today _was_ different; this outcome had stayed stationary but vague no matter what the circumstances were. To have the rally today was trouble.

He’d tried to convince Enjolras to call it off, he really had, but upon his challenge Enjolras had questioned why, and to tell him the truth would be a repeat of his adolescence. Needless to say, it hadn’t worked this time. The rally would go ahead as planned.

“Alright, what’s wrong?” Courfeyrac interrupted Combeferre’s spiralling musings with hands to his shoulders, thumbs working circles into his neck muscles, making him groan a little.

“Something’s gonna go wrong—You know, I really hate it when you do that honesty thing.” Combeferre raised his hand to Courfeyrac’s, clasping it in his own.

“What’s going to happen?” queried Courfeyrac gently, pressing a kiss to Combeferre’s jaw.

“I don’t know,” Combeferre admitted after a while, the hands on his shoulders momentarily freezing.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean I don’t know. I’ve just got this feeling that something’s gonna go wrong and it’s just like before but I don’t know how to stop it and—What’s the use of being able to see the future if you can’t see what you need to stop?” His voice grew steadily more hysterical as he continued speaking.

“Hey…” Courfeyrac wrapped his arms around Combeferre’s middle, going on his tiptoes to rest his chin on his shoulder. “Relax, mon ami…”

Combeferre took a deep, shuddering breath, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the centre’s wrists. It was too late to change anything anyway.

***

Enjolras fell back against his guide and centre as Bahorel sprang in front of him, a grin set upon his face as he lunged for their opponent.

"Enjolras, move your tight athletic perfection of an ass, it's too late to salvage this shit,” mumbled Courfeyrac into his ear, tugging urgently at his arm. With Combeferre pulling at his other side it was all the blond could do to turn on his heel and let them pull him along.

“What about Bahorel?” he called over all the yelling and sirens.

“Trust me, he’ll be fine!” responded his guide, steering him through a side-alley that would take them into the next street, Courfeyrac bringing up the rear.

Sure enough, panting and pounding footsteps made a swift appearance, and while Courfeyrac and Enjolras had made startled motions, practically lurching forwards to escape the perceived threat, Combeferre had simply muttered a, “Relax, it’s Bahorel.”

Enjolras didn’t have time to question how he’d known before Bahorel himself spoke up, voice hoarse from yelling. “Lost the others…Jehan and Grantaire…they’re fine…have Freckles…move…”

It was unlikely that anyone would have tracked them this far, they’d utilised so many passageways and shops, going in the front door and out the back. Unfortunately, it was even more unlikely that they’d be able to double back towards their agreed meeting point either, though that they’d made it this far without any gasps of pain probably meant they’d be okay, injury-wise. They moved quietly but quickly from here on out, not stopping to catch their breath and waiting until the noise faded into the background before they found themselves a cosy little alley and sank down against the wall, sucking in air like they’d been buried alive.

They stayed there until the cries and calls of the distance faded to naught and then they stayed some more, not speaking a word to each other beyond a cursory check-over of any damage done. Bahorel was the worst off, as per usual, with a forming black eye and bruised knuckles. As for the others, aside from a little scraping of the palms of their hands, they had escaped unscathed.

“I think they’re coming from this way…”

“We’ve been looking for hours, you should let me check from above!”

“Yeah, right, like an oversized birdy wouldn’t have been suspicious?”

“Sure, and your power’s _really_ hurrying things along.”

“Come on, guys, can’t we just get along to find the—“ a third voice was cut off.

“Shut up, Freckles,” came the irritated unanimous response.

“There! That one!”

The quartet shrank in against the walls of the alleyway.

“Wait…” frowned Combeferre, leaning forwards and craning his head around the corner.

“’Ferre, no!” whisper-yelled Courfeyrac, grabbing at his sleeve.

“Courf, it’s just the others.”

Sure enough, Grantaire approached them first, scanning them all with his eyes before settling on Enjolras and practically sagging with relief.

“This would’ve been easier if your phones’d been on,” Marius rolled his eyes, affectionately bumping Courfeyrac’s arm with his own.

“Or if _someone_ had listened to me,” Jehan squinted at Grantaire before his face fell into one of relative ease, pressing his hand to Bahorel’s, though his lips tightened at the sight of the bruising, not that he was one to talk.

Grantaire stood, simply staring at Enjolras as Enjolras blinked back. Combeferre rolled his eyes, counting up their numbers. Courfeyrac embraced Marius, lifting him off the ground and twirling him around. Combeferre’s frown deepened, his fingers coming up to his temple. Marius let out a squeak as Courfeyrac put him down, leaning heavily upon his roommate and friend, laughing at the dizziness and just glad they were all alive. In his dizziness, he took a step backwards and immediately raised his foot, Courfeyrac tilting his head to the side at the reaction and crouching down to take a look for himself.

“What’s that, is that…a pile of rags?”

“It’s Gavroche…” breathed Combeferre, closing his eyes. _Not again…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say I'm sorry for killing Gavroche, but it couldn't be helped.
> 
> Also, this update took longer than expected; apologies for that.


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is very confused. No, really, he hasn't a clue what the hell's going on. Jehan has wings. Gavroche is dead. Joly and Combeferre occupy themselves with a kind of sort of poking at him to figure stuff out thing.
> 
> Enjolras and Grantaire clearly can't have a conversation that doesn't end in angst.
> 
> Also Grantaire shouldn't walk through the night alone.
> 
> Montparnasse is an overly concerned implied boyfriend thing.
> 
> Foreshadowing.

He knew liberty. He knew equality. He knew how to make people listen by the sheer sound of his voice alone. He knew how to bring a crowd to their feet and a man to his knees. He knew how to change the world. What he didn’t know, however, was superpowers, let alone why his friends had kept theirs from him. Did they _all_ just _happen_ to have these talents? What, was he a magnet for people with superpowers? But most importantly, was he really so unapproachable they wouldn’t even think to tell him? Not even his guide and centre?

Jehan interrupted Enjolras’ train of thought before it delved into catastrophic regions, pressing a cup of water into his hand. “You okay there, Chief?” he queried, wings held in against his back. “You look…shell-shocked to say the least.”

Enjolras let out a shaky breath of laughter, taking the water with an inclination of his head and casting his eye around the room. Their little dead friend, who had, according to Joly, lost his life thanks to a surgical knife in, according to Combeferre, considerable pain, was laid upon the table in the corner as the pair attempted to discern precisely what had happened, and to their credit, their hands didn’t shake at all. He didn’t know how to think on this, to emulate Courfeyrac, weeping freely on the couch or to emulate Marius, whose expression was so grave no one’s touch at his shoulder didn’t rouse him from his grief.

“I don’t know what to feel,” he admitted, his grip tightening around the water, though he had no intention of drinking it. “What’s the point of you all…you know…having… _powers_ …if you can’t stop things like this from happening…?”

“It’s nobody’s fault, Enjolras…” Jehan sat down beside him, wing coming around to curl around their blond leader, though he jerked away momentarily, unused to the feathers against the back of his neck.

“Yeah it is…” sighed Enjolras, not looking at him. “Murder’s always someone’s fault…” Jehan’s wing pulled him closer, comfortingly.

“Damn right it is,” Grantaire mumbled, taking another sip of the whisky Bossuet had pressed into his hands and sighing a deep sigh.

Enjolras stared at him. Grantaire didn’t notice, gaze fixated on the bundle of a boy on the table in the corner as he rubbed absently at his temple. Jehan looked between the two before standing up, fluffing his wings up and going to make a cup of tea. It looked like they were going to have a quality heart to heart, after all. He lived in hope anyway.

“What do you do?” queried Enjolras, with no malice, no snappish quality to his words – he was tired, perhaps even in a state of shock. It wasn’t every day one discovered one’s friends all had powers, after all.

“I hear thoughts,” Grantaire responded, finishing his drink with an ugly twist to his upper lip and turning his vaguely challenging stare to Enjolras.

“…You hear thoughts.”

“I hear thoughts.”

Enjolras fell quiet for a second before beginning to speak again, “So you–“

“Get to hear everyone’s dirty little secrets? Yes. They’re not as nice as you might think.”

His knuckles whitened around his water as Grantaire put his own cup down. “But people fixate on things they’re about to do, you must have had plenty of opportunities to–“

“To what, try and stop them? It doesn’t work like that. If I could’ve changed this I would have but it’s _pointless_. Why can’t you see that?”

“Because I’m–“

“A freaking angel?!”

“No!”

“Right, yeah, as if you’d understand. You’re so fucking _pure_ and _terrible_ and _raw_ and you’re the most honest person I’ve ever met, I mean, have you met you? People are _shits!_ They set up false pretences for everything they do and say and every word that comes out of their mouth is _really fucking different_ from what they’re thinking.”

“What are you—“

“But not you.”

Enjolras shut up, his mouth snapping shut and his water shaking dangerously, almost slopping out of the cup.

“You say everything that’s on your mind and it’s great. It’s beautiful. I don’t understand it but I can’t help it, the way your words echo your thoughts and expressions is beautiful and I can’t help but want to believe in you, I can’t help but believe in you for all of your filterless existence and words and thoughts and you’re…you.”

Somewhere throughout his spiel, Grantaire had stood up, the volume of his voice rising with every word until the anticlimactic end.

Enjolras remained silent, staring slack-jawed at him in all his dispassionate passion, passion for…him?

“Well…” Grantaire offered, tone entirely helpless as he stood, soul bared and guarded all at the same time, simply awaiting the verbal lashing he was sure to come. Had he just broken Enjolras?

“Why don’t you help?” was all Enjolras could say, almost sounding lost.

He didn’t need to be a mindreader to interpret Grantaire’s expression as ‘huh?’

“Why don’t you help people? You could make such a difference here. Combeferre contributes with his power. Bahorel contributes with his power. Why don’t you?”

Courfeyrac smacked Combeferre on the shoulder, trying to get him to pay attention. This wasn’t going to end well. No _way_ was this going to end well. Frickle frackle. Combeferre brushed him off, though, deep in concentration still.

“I just…” _explained it_ , Grantaire finished in his head, though he’d trailed off. It was pointless.

“You just what?”

Grantaire couldn’t speak. Enjolras was entirely focused on his water. Still, it felt as though he held Grantaire’s soul in his hand, passing judgement on him with every second, every word. It felt like his voice was stuck, all clogged up in his throat, like chopped onions in the kitchen sink that had gone all gooey with the water and soap and debris.

“Why are you here, Grantaire? You claim to believe in me yet you refuse to contribute.” Enjolras’ voice didn’t sound angry. It didn’t sound red. Just the quiet blue of vaguely confused disappointment. “Go home, Grantaire.”

“Enjolras—“ Bossuet’s eyes were wide as he shook his head. _Shit_.

“It’s fine,” asserted Grantaire, jutting his chin out as if his eyes didn’t feel like they were being stabbed from the inside out with lots of miniature cacti.

“Is i—“ started Courfeyrac before he was interrupted by Grantaire’s hand across his mouth. If he answered that question he would surely cry.

“It’s whatever,” he grinned a pained grin that tried too hard to be jovial. And with that, Grantaire walked out.

“Ow!” yelped Enjolras as Jehan smacked him on the back of the head.

* * *

“I’ll not go to his funeral,” muttered Grantaire as he stepped along the pavement, lighting his cigarette with a match he ground out with his heel. “What a butthead…”

A low chuckle came from the shadows beyond the streetlamps and Grantaire stopped walking.

“Oooookay?” he breathed out around the cigarette, frowning and looking around him.

_I wonder what kind of conditioner he uses_ …

Innocent enough. Grantaire took a few more steps only to stop when different thoughts reached his mind.

_Maybe laughing was a dumb idea._

_Fucking Hercules…_

Hercules? What the…? Grantaire frowned harder, but resumed the trek home.

There was a tiny whumping noise, like a pillow colliding with a piece of paper.

_Damn. I need more practice…_

_Sous is getting rusty; we’re nowhere near him…_

_I should work on not laughing so much…_

The sky grew cloudy and it started to rain. Grantaire dropped his cigarette to the ground, walking faster.

_Fucking mindreaders_ …

Grantaire started to run, sprinting through the more lit areas and refusing to look behind himself, just running and cursing the dark and running harder and running, legs moving as fast as he could make them as his feet slapped against the already-drenched ground. His breath burned in his lungs and his hair slopped over his face but still he kept running, though a painful stitch was forming in his side. He was running so fast he couldn’t hear them anymore, just an occasional whumping noise that made him wonder if they were teleporting or if he was just hearing things. All he knew was that something was wrong. Something was very definitely wrong.

“Gotcha!” a large oaf of a man grunted, swelling to the size of a small giant as Grantaire’s face collided with the outside of his thigh and he span around him, landing on his back on the ground behind the huge gentleman, who promptly placed a hand on his belly, acting like a cage that afforded him little movement.

“Talk about a work-out,” a masked person flicked their fringe away from their face, silhouetted against the orange light of the street lamp as Grantaire turned on the ground, attempting to scrabble to his feet and scraping the heels of his hands before landing hard on his knee. A hand worked its way into his hair and tugged his head up and then he was facing the scraggly-haired girl from the door of the café.

“All this for Second Class?”

“We’ve never found a mindreader before, ‘Ponine, it’s worth it.”

“Wh—“ Grantaire cleared his throat.

“Hercules?” the masked person calmly requested without any additional words, stepping around in front of Grantaire and nudging him with their foot. Hercules(?) pressed his hand down onto Grantaire’s back, shoving the side of his face into the ground.

“Shut up,” he grunted as Grantaire grit his teeth.

The Phantom of the Opera cast their gaze around the area, ‘Ponine (Pony?) holding loosely onto their sleeve, before Phantom placed disdainful fingertips upon Hercules’ hand and Grantaire’s head. Grantaire couldn’t say what happened next, only that it felt very much like his insides were being compressed to the size of a small hamster.

* * *

“Idiot,” Montparnasse hissed, grabbing Éponine by the arm and dragging her towards the wall, only to stop abruptly.

“Excuse me?” she bit back, folding her arms defiantly.

“I thought you got out!” he whisper-yelled, the angry look on his face more resembling a pout.

“What, you’re gonna stamp your foot and throw a tantrum? I needed the money.”

Montparnasse let out a frustrated groan. “No, you _really_ don’t get it, do you?”

“What’s to get?” she shrugged back, stepping up to him and flicking her hair over her shoulder. “Money’s money.”

It was no secret to Montparnasse that Éponine didn’t care for him as he did for her. Obviously. Otherwise she’d understand completely where he was coming from.

“I risked my life for you,” he explained, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as he scuffed his toe against the ground, suppressing an irritated grunt as he realised said toe had a speck of blood on it. And he’d just got these shoes…

There were a few moments of silence before the penny dropped and she seemed to get it, puffing out a breath.

 “Fine,” she reluctantly muttered, hooking her fingers underneath his chin and placing her cheek against the side of his neck. “I’m out, you dumb butt.”

Montparnasse had never been more grateful that Éponine couldn’t see his face than now, because it quite literally sagged out of gratitude and relief as he puffed out a breath of air.

“Dork,” she poked his side.

“Only for you.”

The sky was clear that night.

* * *

“Something the matter, Pontmercy?” Courfeyrac questioned, stretching across the couch with his head in Marius’ lap. “You’ve been staring at your phone for the past hour.”

Marius sighed, but the truth bubbled out of his mouth like sea foam only not visible. “Cosette wasn’t picking up her phone…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't really posted in a while - blame stuff happening and university and things. I actually got much of this done while doing the laundry so hey, maybe that could be a thing. I'll try to get the rest done as soon as I can, though.
> 
> Almost halfway through!


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert's just trying to do his job.
> 
> Combeferre could use a break from all of this but is a good buddy ol' pal despite that.
> 
> Interlude with Cosette and Grantaire.
> 
> Courf's just trying to help and nobody notices Eponine's lonely soul.

“You don’t understand, Officer Javert—“

“Perhaps you ought to explain it, then, young man.”

“I _have_! My girlfriend is _missing_!”

“I’m sorry, young man, but if she hasn’t been picking up her phone, there’s no reason to immediately conclude that she’s missing.”

“But she’s not at her flat—“

“When did you last see her?”

“Er…we met for coffee at three, uh…two days ago.”

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Marius! …Marius Pontmercy.”

“Mr Pontmercy. I can’t put in an official report until she’s been missing for seventy-two hours, and even then, it needs to be clear that she is, in fact, missing. Even her family can’t have seen her.”

Marius sighed in despondence as Combeferre led him away from the police station.

* * *

They met up with Enjolras outside a Fairtrade-certified coffee shop and he handed them their drinks with a questioning raise of his eyebrow.

Marius sighed again and shook his head. “No luck,” he mumbled, gratefully taking the coffee. “How can I _live_ when we are parted?”

The look on Enjolras’ face betrayed how perplexed he was by the sentiment. They had bigger things to worry about, and he was about to open his mouth to verbalise this when Combeferre gave him a sharp nudge in the side and a warning glare. Enjolras cleared his throat. “I’m sure she’s okay, Marius.”

Marius gave him a funny look at that, unsure of whether he was more confused by the use of his forename or by Enjolras’ attempt to make him feel better. “I just wish I knew she was okay, y’know?”

Now it was Combeferre’s turn to sigh, clasping his hands around his coffee until the liquid threatened to overflow at the shakiness of his grip. “Fine,” he conceded, as he raised tired eyes to meet Marius’. Upon Marius’ confused ‘huh?’ he elaborated, “I can see the fucking future, Pontmercy, now, do you want my help or not?”

Marius opened his mouth a few times, his eyes glimmering with the faintest amount of hope. “You’d do that?”

“Yeah, I don’t suppose it could do any harm. If you want me to, I’ll try to see a few seconds into her future, just—“ He eyed Marius, who looked as if he may have laid a wet one on him if this succeeded. “Don’t…kiss me.”

Eyes shining like a puppy that had a chance of a treat, Marius nodded eagerly.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Combeferre pushed his glasses up his nose and sipped at his coffee. “Remember, without knowing where she is, I can only get a rough idea, but just for you, I’ll see what I can do—“

_“AAAUUUUURRRRGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!”_

_It was completely dark save for the screaming. All there was was screaming, constant screaming, the man barely stopping to catch his breath—or couldn’t he?_

_“Stop it, you’re hurting him!”_

_“That’s the point! Only through agony will his powers get stronger.”_

_The man stopped screaming, resorting to a quiet whimper that sounded familiar. “Please…”_

Combeferre remained silent, even as his expression grew ashen and white at what he’d seen. He felt nauseous, dizzy, disgusted by the transpirations he’d just experienced, not even first hand, but close enough to cause his eyes to scrunch shut and his jaw to clench tighter and tighter as he dwelled on it, possibly too much.

“What? What, what, what?” Enjolras responded in equal parts panic and confusion, reaching out towards Combeferre. His guide was flailing.

Marius stepped forwards, his eyes coming together in worry, “What, what is it?! Is Cosette okay?”

“Grantaire…it’s Grantaire…” Combeferre whispered, as he twisted his hands into Enjolras’ shirt, shoulders shaking. “They’ve got— they have both of them.”

Somehow Enjolras got the feeling he’d made a very grave mistake in sending Grantaire away the night before.

“Shit,” he mumbled, pulling Combeferre in further, awkwardly wrapping his arms around him as Marius stood off to the side, staring vacantly at the ground, as if he could barely believe his imagination.

* * *

Cosette leant over an unconscious Grantaire as the light in the dank cell began to wane.

“’Aire…?” Cosette breathed, pushing Grantaire’s hair back from his clammy forehead, being careful not to exert too much strength, lest her fingers go straight through his skull.

Grantaire cracked his eyes open obediently, his eyes still slightly glazed over. “Yeah...?” he replied, voice hoarse from screaming.

“…You okay…?” she questioned, already knowing what the answer would be.

Grantaire chuckled, the bitter laugh soon turning into a coughing fit as his hands trembled. She didn’t want him to answer that, he knew she didn’t want him to answer that; the darkness was making her thoughts louder and any efforts she made to conceal them only made them stronger.

“Yeah, I know, dumb question…How’d we get into this mess, ‘Aire…?”

He sighed, pulling her down to his chest and wrapping his arms around her. “If only I knew, Cosette…If only I knew.”

* * *

“Right. In the dead of night, we sneak into the place, grab Grantaire and Cosette, hijack one of their vehicles, and then we drive back to base like there’s no mañana!”

“ _Courf_!”

“ _What_? I don’t see anyone _else_ coming up with a plan!”

“Damnit, Courf, this is no time for El Dorado,” Enjolras slammed his hands down on the table, sleeves pushed up as he practically glowed with righteous fury. At the farthest end of the room, Bahorel surreptitiously mumbled to Bossuet and Joly that it was always time for El Dorado.

“Well, _excuse me_ for trying to get the sticks out of everyone’s asses long enough for us to _rescue our friends_!” met Courfeyrac.

Combeferre placed consoling hands upon both Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s shoulders and the tension seemed as if it had been sucked from them both. “Well, we’re certainly not going to get anywhere by fighting amongst ourselves. Come on, guys, let’s think.”

“We could track them?” Feuilly suggested, holding his hands out to indicate the various pieces of software and technological bits and bobs laid out in front of him. “If we can get hold of some of their DNA I could configure these to get their location, then all we gotta do is get them out, which is totally possible, ‘cause the building probably has electronic guarding systems. Take ‘em out, we’ve got our friends back.”

“We’ll entertain it,” Enjolras nodded, before casting his eyes towards Combeferre, who knew what he was asking and sighed in response.

Running the outcomes of the scenario through his mind, Combeferre winced. “Too bloody. Too risky. Too many guards. Anyone else?”

Bahorel raised his voice from the back of the room, reclining in a chair that creaked as he swung it onto its back legs. “Tag team. If Feuilly can track them down, we could get through the guards with brute force.” He grinned at the prospect of a fight.

“When I say too many guards, I mean they’re guards with powers. We can’t fight through them, none of us are strong enough,” Combeferre clarified.

“Excuse,” snorted Jehan, fluffing his wings out in affront.

Combeferre shook his head. “I’m just being realistic here. We don’t know how many of them there are, and it may be more harm than it’s worth to go in there without—“

Cries of outrage cut him off, arguments starting up again until Courfeyrac piped up:

“So…there’s no hope?”

Cue a silence so intense that were this a movie, crickets would be chirping.

“Not without knowing what we need to know, no…”

 “Wait, what?”

The entire room froze at the sound of an unidentified voice.

A girl with her hair tied back in a scraggly ponytail stepped out of the shadows – she’d always been a sucker for trashy movie tropes – and held her hands out in front of her in a conciliatory gesture. Her cheekbones were too prominent, her nails bitten to the bed, and upon her feet she wore beaten down army boots that had seen multiple owners and better days. In short, the girl had had a hard life, and it showed in the sockets of her eyes.

“Ep…?”

“Hey, Marius,” she waved with a sheepish smirk (a combination of expressions found only in the Thenardier brood), even as the movement made Enjolras and Bahorel stand in alarm. Éponine took a step backwards, hands in front of her again as she chuckled nervously. “Woah there! Easy, boys; I ain’t here to give you flack or nothing.”

Jehan winced at the way she spoke, but pulled his wings closer to his body, noting with concern that she was an outsider who had seen them. She may well report the feathered appendages to the authorities, and then where would he be? On the run? In a lab?

Éponine’s eye was not drawn to Jean Prouvaire, however. Rather, her gaze locked on the sheet-covered body of Gavroche that lay upon the table in the corner. She approached it, approached her baby brother, paying no mind to Joly’s medically alarmed start as the clouds gathered outside, rain beginning to pour down in sheets.

A muscle in Bossuet’s cheek jumped and Marius put a hand out to stop him from springing to his feet in defence of the little corpse. “No, don’t— He’s her brother,” he explained, swallowing heavily.

With that knowledge, nobody stopped Éponine as she reached for Gavroche’s hand, and the room fell to silence until Enjolras broke it.

“Do you know who’s responsible for this?” he demanded, only it sounded less like a demand and more like a query with the power of a demand. He may have been blind to romantic concerns, but he wasn’t heartless. The girl’s brother was dead, and the simplicity of that particular situation forced gentleness into his tone, his hair flowing behind him, having broken free of its elastic restraints during the earlier arguments.

Éponine nodded, thunder crashing outside, neither that nor her voice audible with any clarity above the torrents of water that fell from the heavens.

“It’s my father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know I haven't posted anything for this in..............five, six months?
> 
> I have an idea for a sequel, though, but yeah, can't do that without finishing this, and I have this all planned out. Time to get to work, huh?


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude with Cosette and Grantaire
> 
> *the great escape theme plays in the distance* also Montparnasse makes a bad power-related pun
> 
> Cosette wants McDonalds, and Thenardier's super secret plan and its implications are somewhat revealed, as with the power of Marius

The cell was dark, and the leak in the ceiling, dripping a steady and small amount of water onto the ground, was not out of place as the bars gleamed without glimmer.

“You have to eat something…”

“Go away, Cosette.”

“ _Eat_ , ‘Aire,” she insisted, pressing the hardened bread towards him.

Grantaire scowled up at her, and she matched his expression until he took the bread from her hand. He sighed, chewing slowly.

Shuffling along on the bench until she could lean her head against his shoulder, Cosette turned her face in towards his neck. “This is how all those deaths happened, isn’t it?”

He nodded silently, wrapping his arm around her. “…Yeah,” he reluctantly forced out.

“But we’re not like them,” spoke Cosette, the wavering in her voice giving way to new strength.

“We’re exactly like them.” The bitterness in Grantaire’s voice was empty frustration. He knew damn well he wouldn’t break Cosette’s spirit, nor was he truly trying to. All he knew was that if he got his hopes up, they’d come crashing down, and then they’d be dead. “They’ll break us.”

Cosette smiled, pulling back from Grantaire and pushing his hair out of his face as he huffed a small exhale of air. She hummed a little, taking his hand in her own.

“We’re resilient now.”

* * *

This, mused Montparnasse, was shaping up to be a very boring night, as he ignited and extinguished little balls of fire that danced around the tips of his fingers. Every so often quiet moans could be heard from the cells, frustrated screaming, with an occasional thud echoing around the halls. He was on guard duty tonight; apparently Gueulemer had a date, which was perplexing in itself, but, he supposed, it took all sorts. A little, contented smile appeared uninvited upon his rosy lips as he pressed his hand to the hickey on his neck. Yes, he thought. It did take all sorts.

The lights all went out and Montparnasse pushed off from the wall in alarm, shooting off a **‘????** ’ text to Babet, who was supposed to be patrolling outside.

He got a **‘????** ’ text back, quickly followed by a **‘!!!!** ’ and a **‘WBC hlp pls’**.

Montparnasse stared at the texts, puzzling over them and sending fiery orbs up to hang, unsuspended, at regular intervals along the hallway. One or two of the people in cells cried out at the type of light, too familiar with fiery sensations by now, and Montparnasse rolled his eyes, snarling threateningly through those specific peoples’ cell bars. One of them spat at him, so he set them on fire before turning his back and texting Babet.

**‘??????’**

His phone beeped with a status report, standard for the building type, but still no reply from Babet. **‘Electricity non-functional. Water functional. Back-Up Generator functional in 7.6 minutes.’**

“Thank the fucking lord,” he muttered to himself, shoving the sleek black phone back into his pocket with a little less finesse than he would have if anybody who actually mattered were watching.

Wait—

Was it just him, or—

Was the room suddenly a lot…brighter?

Montparnasse spun on his heel and thrust his arm out, sending the fireballs he’d been using to light the room towards the new threat; there was a random glowing dude standing on the other end of the surprisingly long corridor.

“Who are you?!” he yelled out as the idiot stood his ground, the fireballs hurtling towards him.

The Bald Idiot stood still, grinning. The sprinkler system came on, despite it having been disabled when they’d taken over the building. The fireballs went out immediately, and not one, but two figures emerged out of the steam.

“Well,” the Bald Idiot drawled, accompanied by a lanky friend with eagerness and danger in his eyes. “That depends, what name do you want to call me by?”

“How about Ash?” laughed Montparnasse, setting his entire forearms on fire and preparing to launch at them.

Shit—

Fuck—

The sprinklers were still on. Who the hell put god damn _safety measures_ in this place? It was really cramping his style.

He reached for his gun, but the lanky one had his arm slung around his shoulder before Montparnasse could pull it. He tried to jerk away, but…he didn’t really want to. In fact…Montparnasse wanted to release everybody they were holding captive.

* * *

“Can we get some fucking McDonalds up in here please?”

Cosette’s rather abrupt demand brought laughter to an otherwise tense group as they reconvened in Courfeyrac and Marius’ flat. Joly and Combeferre continued to check them over for physical injury, making ‘tsk’ noises every time they found another laceration or bruise. Both of their wrists were rubbed raw, but as far as they could tell, that was as far as the similarities went. It seemed like Cosette was worse for the wear than Grantaire was, but he hadn’t said a word since they’d been sprung, and he batted Joly’s hands away from him.

Marius pressed kisses to Cosette’s temple, brushing her hair out for her and gently cleaning her hands of grime for her. “We can get all the McDonalds you want, baby,” he murmured in her ear. “I’m just glad to have you back.”

“I’m so glad to be back,” she murmured back, holding his hand in her own and letting her worries float away as she leant on Marius, letting him root her to the couch they sat on. “It’s horrible in there…”

All Grantaire was trying to do, however, was not listen to anyone’s thoughts, but it was taking more willpower than it usually did and he sagged back, Combeferre trading positions with Joly to prop him up again. Combeferre continued to poke and prod, bending his wrists this way and that and asking him questions about what hurt, what ached, what _happened_ , and— flew backwards, into Jehan’s strong arms, catching him before he could crash into the coffee table.

Oh. Oh yeah. He’d forgotten about that.

Enjolras stood and Grantaire stood too, using his newfound (and barely visible) shield thingy of sorts to keep himself upright, pressing on his surroundings with his mind to repel them from him. It would keep him standing. It had kept him standing for the past week.

“Sorry, Ferre,” he muttered when Cosette reached through the protective shield and took his hand in her own.

Combeferre seemed more fascinated than anything as he thanked Jehan for not letting him break Courfeyrac’s coffee table. He then held his hand out in front of him, gradually pressing forward until he met resistance. Until Grantaire mentally resisted him. Their eyes met and Grantaire wavered, eventually letting the shield fall and collapsing back onto the couch.

“I thought you could only read minds,” Enjolras mused, stepping towards the couch, Cosette (and by extension, Marius) shuffling closer to Grantaire, and vice versa.

“…It’s my father,” Éponine said, plain as day. She had taken to sitting in the very farthest recesses of the rooms in which they convened, dark eyes seeing all.

“He wants power, doesn’t he?” Cosette sat up as the words left her mouth, instantly recognising the Thenardier girl from her own past. “Our power.”

Éponine’s mouth set into a grim line and she nodded solemnly. “Our power,” she repeated. They had been children together. She had witnessed Cosette lifting an entire couch to clean beneath it, and Cosette had witnessed Éponine making it rain when she hung the washing out to dry. They each knew the other had power before they knew how to spell the word. “Ever since he found out, he’s wanted to get it. Says it’s not fair it’s wasted on brats like us.”

“Is that even possible?” were the first words Feuilly asked, looking up from his tinkering, though he’d been listening this whole time.

“Might be,” groaned Grantaire, sitting up and swallowing the headache tablets Combeferre wordlessly, upon recognising the facial expression, passed his way – without water, so he grimaced as they went down. “Hence the experiments. He’s…pretty close. But he can’t harness it if he doesn’t understand it and he can’t understand it if he doesn’t break the powers down into their components. He can’t understand it if he doesn’t break _us_. It’s fifty-fifty.”

“Between what…?” Courfeyrac wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to know the answer, and he’d purposefully worded it so neither Cosette nor Grantaire would have to divulge precisely what had happened since their capture. A room full of people wasn’t the place for them to confront that, and Courfeyrac was anything but an asshole.

“Between unlocking your full potential, and—“ Cosette cut herself off, glancing at Marius.

Enjolras prompted, “And…?”

Cosette sighed, shaking her head. She was very glad it hadn’t been Courfeyrac asking that question; Marius’ arms were already wrapped around her. The answer would have made him squeeze the air right out of her lungs (and she could now say she knew what that felt like).

Grantaire answered for her. “And death.”

Once again, everyone fell silent.

“We have to stop him,” Cosette whispered to the room at large.

Jehan nodded in agreement. “Even a one in ten chance of death is too high for this shit.”

“We can’t,” muttered Grantaire, with a grateful nod to Bahorel, who had placed a beer in his hand.

“Well, not to toot my own horn, but I think we did pretty okay just there,” smirked Feuilly, looking like an evil genius as he tapped his fingers together. He had, of course, been responsible for the technological side of their breakout plan.

Courfeyrac and Bahorel broke in at the same time, “And great power does come with great responsibility.”

That would have completely broken the ice, giving way to joviality and festivity, but alas, their leader was severe in his passions.

“We, the privileged with such responsibility, have a duty to rise,” gave Enjolras, inspiring as always. “More will die if we do not. We are the only ones who know his plans, the only ones with the means to stop him, and the only ones who give a shit. The future is in our hands. So, will we fight? Or will we be content with ‘fifty-fifty’? I say _no to fifty-fifty_!”

Obligingly, the room in general gave a rallying cry and Enjolras sat down. About fifty discussions, of variable feasibility, on how to take down Thenardier immediately sprang up.

Joly sat with Bossuet, satisfied that his friends were as healthy and healing as they could be, though he was curious to know something. He was, in fact, curious enough to break the silence. “So, Cosette,” he led.

“Hm?”

Joly smiled at her, and when she smiled back, asked perfectly casually, “Why don’t you have any new bruises? It looks like yours have been there for days, but you said they were still…you know…”

“I’m indestructible,” she deadpanned.

Marius groaned, putting his head back in frustration. How come literally everybody else had a cool power?

“You okay, Freckles?” queried Courfeyrac as he squished his way into a space on the couch, genuinely concerned for his flatmate’s health.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Just thinking about my dumb power.”

Courfeyrac arched an eyebrow. “Power?” No, really, he was legitimately surprised. Marius hadn’t said anything about having a power before.

“I make plants grow.” Realising what he’d just said, Marius flushed red. Crap, this was embarrassing… He tried to hide his face in his girlfriend’s hair; there was no way he could face any of them, not now that they knew his power was so lame…

“Cool.”

…Wait, what?

Marius expressed his bemused musing aloud, with an incredulous expression as he regarded Courfeyrac.

“Cool,” beamed the poodle-haired centre, shrugging. “At least it’s actually useful. You could like, cure world hunger or something.”

“…Oh.” That hadn’t occurred to him before and Marius Pontmercy smiled. “I guess it is pretty cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending this one on a cute note, before the heavy stuff gets going.  
> Also omg two in the one day, I...don't suggest you get used to it. BUT 9/15 MEANS I'M ALMOST THERE!!! !!!!!!  
> Also also, when Babet says 'WBC', it stands for 'We've Been Compromised'. He just expects everyone around him to understand.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montparnasse licks his wounds
> 
> Azelma smashes, Babet gets paint in his eye, Enjolras takes a tumble

“Damnit, ‘Ponine,” muttered Montparnasse as he stamped his feet and glared at the rain that pooled in puddles on the ground in front of their super awesome and brilliantly villainous group on their way to collect new prisoners to study. Damn meddling kids, storming them and taking their prisoners like that. Montparnasse still ached from the flack he’d got from that.

It was one o’clock in the morning, and the moon would be high in the sky if it weren’t for Éponine. Montparnasse recognised the work, and he smirked at the memory of the night before. Ah yes, he mused, with very few people did he enjoy the sensation of handcuffs at six pm.

“Snap out of it,” Claquesous jabbed a sharp elbow into Montparnasse’s ribcage, Montparnasse glaring at them in return. Claquesous continued, “Just remember what your girlfriend said, and be on your guard.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Montparnasse snapped, putting up his umbrella and snarling at the rain. He still remembered when he’d found out about her powers, how she’d needled and prodded at him until he’d ignited in front of her, sending streams of fire in her direction. All Éponine had done was laugh and make it rain and…there went the fire. She had singlehandedly taken away the only thing about him that was even remotely badass, and in one fell move, twisted him from growling leopard to puffed up kitten.

He felt a little guilty for telling her father and Patron Minette about that dumb Ami group’s plan for taking them down, but there were fresh surgical stitches in his stomach that disagreed with his guilt.

* * *

If Enjolras’ lips grew any thinner they would disappear altogether, and then where would Grantaire be? He did, oh, so love it when he talked, after all. Grantaire was trying very hard not to listening to his thoughts, but that was proving to be rather difficult, considering how the leader in question’s eyes were boring a hole into Grantaire’s skull.

“Stop that,” he grumbled, listening for approaching Patron Minette members.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras finally apologised, Grantaire’s disgruntlement prompting him to speak.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Can we do this later? As in not when we’re about to get in a world-changing fight that we’re probably going to lose before we even begin?”

“Guys, chill,” whispered Bossuet, stepping between them and frowning as he attempted not to glow.

“– _Yeah, guys, we don’t have time for this, you’ve got ten minutes, max_ —“ Combeferre’s voice drifted from the remote location where he, Courfeyrac and Feuilly were monitoring the goings-on, into the super high-tech Bluetooth earpieces that the ragtag team of heroes wore in their ears.

“No shi—“ Grantaire cut himself off, flinging his hand out behind him and accidentally smacking Bossuet in the chest as he did so. “I heard something.”

“A thought?”

“No, a fucking air raid siren, _yes_ , a thought. It’s one of them, shut up.”

“— _Go on, you can do this_ —“ Yeah, really comforting, Combeferre. Really comforting.

A little girl stood in the middle of the street, catching the three Amis off-guard as the stepped out, Bossuet wielding a paintball gun, Enjolras a baseball bat, and Grantaire his bare hands. They faltered where they stood, with bemused thoughts being thought all round. Were they supposed to fight a little girl?

Enjolras spoke first, dropping any severity from his tone as he stepped forwards. “Hey, there, are you lost?”

‘ _Patronising fucker_ ,’ thought the girl. Grantaire raised his eyebrows, and it took him all of two seconds to register the resigned sigh that left the girl’s lungs and what it meant, and only one second more to throw up the repellent shield he’d only learnt to use over the past few days. It expanded to cover Enjolras and Bossuet as well, and just as well too, for no sooner had the shield been placed and fortified than a car was hurtling towards their heads, only to glance off the protective field and smash into a building.

The looks on Enjolras and Bossuet’s faces would have been comical if what had just happened hadn’t been entirely terrifying, so Grantaire stepped forwards, expanding the shield as he did so until it was pressing against the orange-haired girl so hard she had to brace herself on the ground. She put her hands out and he felt a pressure on the field, like someone pressing their finger into a balloon, nearly bursting it, and he frowned harder, planting his feet and pushing his hands out at the same level as hers, and even though they were a few metres away it was like they were both shoving against a solid wall.

‘ _Why won’t he give up?! They said he always gave up! Why isn’t he giving up?!_ ’

When he’d been their prisoner he’d only had himself to fight for. This time if he gave in, Enjolras and Bossuet would go down as well, even though in order to keep up the field’s strength on this end he’d had to make sure neither of them could step forward either. He couldn’t give in. Not this time.

_‘Éponine was right…’_

Grantaire’s expression melted into one of absolute shock. “Éponine…?”

“What?” Bossuet turned to Enjolras, his grip on the paintball gun slackening.

A gargantuan roar set the buildings in the streets quaking in their foundations and Grantaire faltered, the pressure of the girl’s telekinesis forcing him to fly backwards, banging his head on the car that had been sent their way and knocking him out. Bossuet shone bright enough for Enjolras and him to see where they were going as they sprinted towards an unconscious Grantaire, the girl responsible disappearing into shadows and fleeing the scene when the ground began to shake. Enjolras looked up.

“You have got to be kidding me…”

The other week he hadn’t even believed in superheroes and now…

It seemed to have sprung directly from mythology, a griffin with the power and size of a titan. What they didn’t know was that Babet, the shapeshifter of Patron Minette, was not confined to human shapes. His talons were sharp and his tail burnt, even in the rain, eyes glimmering with a dark promise as he opened his beak and roared a lion’s roar, rearing back on his hind legs.

“Take him!” Enjolras commanded (Bossuet nodding and obliging), running to the other side of the street, glad that he spent so much time getting exercise from riots and rallies, as he leapt to the nearest car’s bonnet, and then to the roof.

“— _Enjolras, you can’t distract him by yourself_!—“ Combeferre hyperventilated in his ear.

“— _On it! Buy me time!_ —“ Jehan.

“ _Hey, ugly!_ ” Enjolras yelled, picking up a piece of rubble and tossing it into the air before swinging the baseball bat, sending the rock hurtling towards Babet. Babet roared, smacking it away with a talon, but it was enough to vex him. It was enough to let Bossuet discard his paintball gun as vertically as he could, and it was enough for Jehan to swoop down and grab it, letting Bossuet haul Grantaire away from the mounting devastation.

If they kept the fight here, then Bahorel, Cosette and Marius could follow Feuilly’s guidance. If they kept the fight here, then Bahorel, Cosette and Marius could end this, once and for all.

Jehan flapped as hard as he could towards the gargantuan griffin, keeping behind him, keeping out of his line of sight and firing paintballs at him, in the closest quarters that he could. Babet howled, the sound a hideous mixture of an eagle’s screech and a lion’s cry, the auditory concoction resonating in windows that shattered without protest.

Rising into the air, Babet turned and kicked at Jehan with one great hind paw, singing his wing with the flame on his tail, and if beaks could snarl, this one would be.

“What do I do, Combeferre?!” Enjolras yelled into his earpiece as Babet launched higher and higher into the sky. “I can’t fucking fly!”

Jehan circled Babet again, before doubling back down in a nosedive, wings tucking into his body while he held the paintball gun close to his chest. He reached Enjolras and hooked an arm around his middle, giving a one-word command as he did so, “Clench!” This was followed by a stereotypical superhero comment that Jehan couldn’t resist. “Need a lift?”

Enjolras nearly smacked him in the head then and there (for the trashy comic book moment), but Jehan was his ride, and doing so would not be a good idea. They were ten storeys up before he knew it and he called out through the whooshing air, “Get me above him and drop me!”

“You sure?!”

“Just do it!”

So he did, Enjolras landing horse-rider styled on Babet’s back, in front of his wings, wrapping his arms and bat around his neck and pulling backwards, extracting a choking croak from his newly constricted throat. Jehan continued to hit Babet with paintballs, now in the eyes, in the weakest parts of his wings, wherever it would impact him the most. Enjolras hung on for dear life, despite any of Babet’s efforts to swing him off, bucking like a bull until he drooped, dropping a few feet in the air. Jehan pulled back in alarm and Enjolras’ eyes widened. It was working. A little— A little too well.

Babet, now unconscious, shifted back into his human form and both he and Enjolras were losing altitude fast, falling quicker and quicker to the ground. Jehan couldn’t catch them, they were— They were falling too fast, they— Crashed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for sending Babet and Enjolras hurtling towards the ground from fatal heights without resolving that!
> 
> Oh wait--
> 
> No, I'm not!
> 
> (Also oh wow this is pushing the fic over 14k!!! !!!!! Say cheese, guys, kodak moment!)


	11. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of Enjolras' tumble.
> 
> Bossuet is a very good 'placer-of-people-upon-the-ground'.
> 
> No one can hear Jehan.
> 
> Combeferre needs a break. Also dun dun dun.
> 
> Police.

First there was falling.

Then there was darkness.

Then there was screaming.

Enjolras opened his eyes to the sound of hysterical yells in his ear, groaning and sitting up as Jehan touched down in front of him. Jehan hauled him, frantically, to his feet and checked him over for injuries.

“Are you alright?” Jehan had fallen from heights like that before, but he’d always had his wings to buffer his landing. Enjolras? Enjolras had no such luck; the kid shouldn’t even have been standing, and Jehan’s wings shuddered as he flapped around him, lifting his arms this way and that.

Enjolras’ back ached, but that was no surprise. “What happened to the other guy?”

“Huge guy came and hauled him off.”

Making a face at that, Enjolras put a hand to his shoulder. Ow…

“ _—Enjolras?? Enjolras, can you hear me??—_ “ Courfeyrac sounded frantic through the Bluetooth earpiece. “ _—Combeferre screamed your name, are you okay?!—_ “

“Yeah, I hear you,” he responded quickly. Combeferre was one such person that he certainly did not need to worry. “I’m alright.”

“ _—Jehan, is he alright?—“_ Wow, rude. Not believing him was one thing but seeking a second opinion entirely another. In fact, no, not believing him was unacceptable, considering Courfeyrac’s gift for pulling the truth.

“Yep,” Jehan answered Courfeyrac. “Just got lucky, I guess.”

Enjolras scanned the area as Jehan and Courfeyrac continued to talk. Aside from some wreckage of cars against buildings, a bent lamppost, and…the small crater he and the Patron Minette shape-shifter had smashed into the ground, there was no sign of any fight having been had.

“Jehan,” Enjolras commanded Jehan’s attention with his authoritarian tone of voice. “Can you fly up, see if they’re still in the area? Check for extra damage, specifically civilian. Courfeyrac,” he continued into the earpiece, “You and Feuilly check on the security feeds; they obviously knew our distraction was just a distraction and tried to turn it back on us. Éponine said that the shape-shifter was the second-least of our concerns, so your priority now is making sure the others get out of there in one piece. Clear?”

“— _Aye aye, Cap’n—_ “ Courfeyrac confirmed as Jehan obliged Enjolras’ orders, twisting and soaring into the sky.

“Oh, and Courfeyrac…?” murmured Enjolras, holding his hand up to his ear, even though they could all hear him anyway. His tone of voice was far softer now.

“— _Don’t worry about Combeferre. I’ve got him—_ “

Enjolras nodded curtly, making a small ‘hm’ noise of approval as he heard a clattering of footsteps hurtling his way. He made to wield his baseball bat as he turned to face it, but all that was within arms reach was rubble, and he dived into a roll to hide behind an overturned car.

* * *

“Are you sure he’s still here?”

“Yes, Bossuet, I’m fucking sure,” Grantaire panted, searching the area with his eyes to see if he could find Enjolras. He’d heard his thoughts. He’d heard his thoughts after about twenty seconds of nothing. He’d heard twenty seconds of nothing after hearing something he’d never ever wanted to hear. Ever. “He’s around here, he’s got to be, I need to see it, I need—“

Bossuet helped Grantaire sit down on the kerb as Grantaire’s gaze fell upon the crater in the ground, immediately assuming the worst. His knees were buckling beneath him and his chest felt tight so it was probably just as well that Bossuet was there, that Bossuet could stand, and that Bossuet could look around. Grantaire could barely breathe, could barely think— How was he supposed to find Enjolras when he couldn’t breathe or think how fucking useless was—

The man in question emerged from behind an overturned car beside a lamppost that had practically been snapped in half, hanging on by exposed wires and thin pieces of metal. Grantaire could breathe again, and yet he couldn’t stop gaping like a fish, eyes wide at the anomaly that was Enjolras’ thoughts after complete darkness, like static on a radio.

_‘Crouching was a bad idea, my back really hurts now…’_

_‘Is he okay? He looks awful. He did hit his head, though, maybe he’s concussed._ ’

Enjolras’ expression didn’t reflect those thoughts, however, as he turned to face Bossuet. “You guys got clear okay?”

Bossuet glowed brighter at the safe return of their leader, wordlessly marching over to him and wrapping his arms around him. Enjolras stood still for a few seconds before hugging him back, and Grantaire sagged backwards onto the pavement with his hands across his face.

“Bossuet,” he mumbled into the palms of his hands. “If your thoughts get any more sappy, I’m going to push you over and stand on your face, I swear to fucking god.”

“Whatever you say, Capital R. Whatever you say.”

* * *

Jehan circled the perimeter of the area that they’d just been fighting in, barely breaking a sweat. He frowned.

“Guys?” he called into the nifty little earpiece. “Police heading towards you, I repeat, Enjolras, Bossuet, Grantaire, there are police heading in your direction.”

“ _—What? Jeh—I can’t he—you—Wha—“_

They couldn’t hear him. Great.

* * *

“Bossuet, Enjolras and Grantaire are about to be arrested,” muttered Combeferre, haggard-voiced and downing painkillers with his water as he lay on the floor of Feuilly’s flat, head resting on a bundled up sweater which, in turn, was on Courfeyrac’s lap. “They’re too close, there’s no alternative.”

Courfeyrac was still getting used to not having to ask his next question, so he let them lapse into silence as Feuilly tapped away on his laptop. They’d been locked out of the security feeds of the complex, and it was clear that the cameras hadn’t been damaged. Feuilly was on point.

It happened alarmingly fast.

_“So how did you two meet?”_

_“She swept him off his feet and now they’re going to live happily ever after like the lovey-dovey cishet couple that they are.”_

_“Yeah, thanks, Bahore—“_

_Cosette screaming._

_The sound of trees bursting through the concrete ground._

_Fire, catching onto the trees._

_Flashes of Bahorel being encircled by flame, Cosette punching a mask in the jaw before, like Marius, physically vanishing, Éponine being grabbed from behind and stifled by a mammoth of a man._

_Laughter in striking darkness._

“Ferre! Ferre, what is it?! Are you okay?”

“What did you see?”

“For God’s sake, Feuilly, he’s barely breathing, give him time!”

Combeferre shook his head, sucking in air like his life depended on it as he clutched Courfeyrac’s hand. No, no, no, no, no, the plan wasn’t supposed to go this south. Patron Minette were supposed to be _outside_ the building, not—Not waiting to ambush them, and he…he hadn’t seen it coming.

“Patron Minette knows, they—“ Combeferre took a deep breath before continuing, “They’ve— Bahorel and Marius and Cosette and Éponine, they’re…they have— I’m sorry, it’s just taking me a while to—“

“It’s okay,” Courfeyrac murmured comfortingly into Combeferre’s ear, stroking his hair and holding him gently.

Feuilly frowned, cracking open a bottle of water and holding it up to Combeferre’s hand, before frowning harder and handing it instead to Courfeyrac. “We should tell the others.”

“Arrested…” breathed Combeferre, taking the water from Courfeyrac’s hand and downing it as he sat up. “We can tell Joly, Chetta and Jehan, though. Rendezvous is in three hours, we shouldn’t wait that long. Call it in, Feuilly.”

Feuilly gave Combeferre a salute, obliging. No matter how worrying the situation was, he had to keep going. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, gnawed at his lower lip. He didn’t like where this was headed.

* * *

Indeed, the jailed trio had not even been allowed their phone call. They’d stayed silent when asked about the crater in the ground, and been held responsible for the carnage. So, would the police let them off easy? Nay. Messrs Enjolras, Bossuet, and Grantaire, were in very deep shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the filler, guys! Only a little way to go, sorry it's short too!


End file.
